


slingshot

by uncaringerinn



Series: underdog. [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, spoilers for blind betrayal in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncaringerinn/pseuds/uncaringerinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

MacCready sits and waits.

Watches the sun track its slow, dawdling path across the blue sky. An immovable lump as Sturges drifts around him, moving from one needed repair to another. Irritated as Marcy Long's bitching scrapes ruthlessly across his eardrums. Scared because, well-

_She should be back by now, shouldn't she?_

Worried because-

_What if she needed help?_

Sick to his stomach, as the next thought crashes clumsily through the grey matter of his brain:

_What if she's dead?_

He scowls, glares at the uneven, steadily growing pile of cigarette butts beside him. One hour ago, that's when he ran out. Refuses to get up and leave to grab another pack because he needs to be here when she comes back.

_If she comes back._

A snap, a whisper from a traitorous, dark corner of his occupied mind.

His frown deepens, foot tapping out an impatient, unsteady rhythm against the concrete.

MacCready sits and he stares at the empty teleporter before him, unaware that the world around him has grown dim.

A long-winded sigh, more foot tapping, an audible _huff_ as he angrily crosses his arms over his chest.

And suddenly, she appears in a flash of lightning-bright, white-blue light. 

Whatever hopeful emotion that wells up inside him at her return is rapidly and forcefully crushed when he sees the look on her face.

Eyes shiny with unshed tears, her bottom lip trembling, MacCready closes the distance between them with a stumble. Hands come up to clutch uselessly at her elbows, and she buries her face in the jut of his collarbone.

Her body doesn't shake, she doesn't cry. The Boss just stands there, held by him, trying fruitlessly to burrow away into the cavity of his chest.

Eternity.

That's how long they stay there.

Eternity, but he refuses to let her go.

She shifts, a hard swallow, and rasps into the dirty fabric of his duster, "It's too late."

And he wants to cry for her, for the woman who darkened that doorway in the Third Rail so long ago. Who gave him a second chance, who put her own life on the line to help him save his son. MacCready stands there, in the silence of the night, and feels useless because he can't even do the same for her.

"What do we do now?" he asks. Careful, quiet.

The Boss peers up at him, drags the sleeve of that ugly, olive-green Steel uniform across her eyes to soak up the moisture there. With a wet sniff, a lung-deep inhale through snotty nostrils, she says, "We burn it."

\---

It takes her three days before she gives up.

Gives in, rather, to the compulsive urge nettling deep in her bones. She always finds herself back here, settled on the Prydwen's doorstep. A fool, in a moment of unseeing ignorance, would call it loyalty.

But that isn't it.

She would lie if someone made the mistake of asking her why. Bold as brass, straight to their face. She would _never_ say those words out loud. She won't even admit them to herself, alone in the dark, waiting for sleep to lull her eyes shut.

And as she climbs those ladder rungs up to the flight deck, the hot metal scent of the airship assaults her senses, makes her feel like an outsider. An intruder, trying desperately to blend in.

There's a moment, when she's standing idle at the end of that dark, shadowed corridor, that she thinks the news of her Institute intrusion hasn't reached this far south yet. The sun shines bright through the wall of windows, casting him in a strange sort of holy light. His attention is captured by the scribe holding a clipboard in front of him.

He looks frustrated.

Like Atlas, the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders, bound to only grow heavier.

All it takes is a glance upwards, catching on her figure at the end of that empty hall, and she knows that he's heard about the infiltration.

A single wave of his hand dismisses the scribe, those blue eyes narrow and the delicate hairs at the nape of her neck stand on-end. He's a storm on the horizon, drawing closer with every deliberate step he takes. Thunderous footfalls ring in her ears and she is suddenly caught in the downpour.

He says, "You will follow me."

An order, not a suggestion.

Her mind is blank but her feet stumble to comply. She drifts behind him, the walk seems long, and the countless pairs of eyes that track their movement watch her like she's a lamb going to slaughter.

He stops, holds open the door for her. A shaky exhale escapes her lips as she crosses over the threshold, her nerves on high as he follows her inside. She grasps one last, longing look at freedom before the world is shut away in a grinding-groan of slamming metal.

\---

There's that long, painful moment where Maxson does nothing but study her with unfathomable silence; the slouch of her shoulders, her downcast eyes, that defiant, yet somehow uncomfortable angle of her body. Always, _always,_ shrinking herself.

She may do it unconsciously, he doesn't know.

It's as if she suddenly becomes aware of her appearance. She makes an effort to correct herself, spine straightening, shoulders set back, but all of it is unwilling. He can see it in the hard-line clench of her lower jaw.

Maxson hates it, but she has addled his mind. She has somehow wormed her way in, hollowed him out, made a feast of his innards. Heart, guts, and lungs. Theodora has her hooks sunk deep, and he finds himself wary; unwilling to rip them out.

"I want to know why," he attacks.

Theodora counters, "It wasn't anything personal."

Maxson knows there is a way to coax her into baring her teeth, has managed to do it before. He moves in to take up her space, breathe her air, back her into a corner, "I find that hard to believe. The Minutemen are unorganized, underequipped, and ill-prepared for a task such as taking down the Institute."

But she doesn't move to meet him this time, throws out a cautious, "And yet, I've somehow been able to infiltrate the Institute with the very group you say lacks the resources and wherewithal to even dream of such a task."

"Your willfulness, obstinate disobedience, and poor decisions have not only shown a lack of commitment and loyalty, but have cost the Brotherhood a valuable foothold against the Institute in the battle to come." His stance shifts, hands come to clasp behind his back, "Though, I suppose this offense may be rectified. You acquired a holodisk that contains sensitive Institute data and information. You _will_ release it into possession of the Brotherhood."

Her eyes widen, "How did you know about that?"

"Your past _elopement_ with the Railroad has shown me that, while you may be a valuable asset to this operation, you cannot be trusted. Your recent actions with the Minutemen have proven that your judgment is questionable, your behavior is erratic and unpredictable. I need to make sure that you, at no point in the present or future, become a hindrance or a liability to the Brotherhood."

"You have Intel trailing me," her teeth are sharp, but she has yet to snap.

"You so much as _sneeze_ and I hear about it."

There's a scoff before those hazel eyes hover over his features, and she must see something written there, because she hesitates. Slips back from whatever edge he'd shoved her to. Her posture reverts, shoulders slump, arms cross, spine and knees weaken.

Theodora's gaze holds his for the barest of moments before sliding away. It's a chase, maybe, the way he follows her retreat by saying, "Give me the holodisk."

Her face turned away, eyes cast down, she mumbles, "I don't understand."

Maxson's fingers stretch out, catch on her chin to bring her back. His free hand comes up, palm upturned and waiting. He repeats himself with a gentleness ill-suited for their situation, "Give it to me."

Theodora pushes his hands away, seals the gap between them, and slides a thigh between his own. If he forgets why he should never let her so close, she reminds him.

It happens quickly, the way she shoves him with a strength she shouldn't carry, the way the toe of her boot snags on the heel of his, the way she sends him falling to the floor, sprawled and near defenseless.

She takes her time sinking to her knees, the tempo slow-steady as she crawls over him, before finally placing herself on the center of his chest, a leg on either side of him. She bends down, knees pressing up into the pits of his arms. So close that when she speaks her mouth brushes against his, a hint of an almost-kiss that sets him starving.

"I _hate_ you, do you know that?" she murmurs, sweet contempt lacing the words. This woman, so brazenly perched atop him, still manages to look timid, "I hate the way you make me feel, like I'm unworthy, should buckle at my knees and beg for your forgiveness." Her tongue peaks out to wet cracked lips, but she's so close he can feel the pink tip glide slickly over his own, "Like I'm not even fit to lick the dirt off your boots."

Maxson's heart pounds in a rapid staccato against the cage of his breastbone. Theodora smiles shyly at him, "And when you speak," a pause, her thighs clench around his ribs, a barely-there shift as she presses herself against him ever so slightly, and she _moans_ , "it's like someone has cut me open and filled me with _fire_."

Theodora twines her fingers in the lapels of his coat and tugs with just enough strength that he can feel the strain of the leather against his shoulders. Her head tilts back, drapes that pretty ginger hair down her spine, "God damn you, Arthur Maxson," she whispers to the ceiling, to him, to the thick, stagnant air of the room.

It's said like a prayer, like a hope, or a dream. It's said with disbelief, with misery and shame. A cry to the heavens to cast him out of this mortal world, send him plunging into open, swirling sea.

It's said like a curse.

A burden, that's what he is to her.

And her words, the clean scent of her skin, the color of her eyes, her freckle-covered cheekbones, they all tangle together in his stomach and sink like a stone. Theodora shifts again, glides back until the swell of her ass rests against the ridge where he's grown hard. She turns her face away, bites her lower lip between those pretty, pre-war teeth to keep it from trembling, "I don't _understand_ ," she murmurs, barely loud enough for him to hear.

The image she creates is so purely helpless that it tugs cruelly on the strings of his heart, makes his arousal pump harsh and heady through his veins. This woman is not mild or fragile. She's violent and gut-churning, whittling him down to nothing-left, and she has the _audacity_ to paint the picture of wholesome innocence, vulnerable and weak, while she sits astride him. He's furious that he's fallen for her charade more than once, almost fell for it again.

Arthur hooks his fingers in the crooks of her knees and hauls himself upright, "Do you take me for a fool?" It's a threatening growl, catching hotly on the line of her jaw. Makes him hungry when he sees her shiver.

Angry hazel eyes snap back to his, "You're hell-bent and brutal. You'll crush us all in your pursuit of glory and greatness. A juggernaut, that's what I take you for."

"Give me the holodisk, Theodora," he snarls, "I will not ask again."

_You never ask_ , she thinks _, you demand, command, and you take, and take, and take._

When she uncurls her fingers from his coat they're stiff and painful, clumsy as she reaches into a pocket on her armor, just to the side of her hip. Her other hand comes out, wraps around his wrist to turn his open palm up.

Theodora places the holodisk there, rolls his fingers into a fist. Her voice wavers, weak-willed and bitter, "You'll make me regret this," and the words leave a sour taste on the back of her tongue.  

She moves from him, defeated, back turned. A sight that makes his heart seize when it shouldn't, and as he stands to leave, refuses to look back, he promises himself that she isn't his downfall.

But he knows greater men have fallen for less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, finally got the first chapter of the re-write up. as always, i would like to know what you guys think. let me know, and in the meantime i have to go study for a biochemistry exam.


	2. two.

He wouldn't let her leave.

So, she sits with her back against the wall, legs splayed out before her in the same room Arthur left her. Her head tilts up and back, eyes wide as she stares at the ceiling.

The fingers of her right hand mindlessly twist at the wedding band that rests on the third finger of her left.

She swallows.

_What would you think of me now, Nate?_

And with that single thought, an image from a past long gone flitters to the forefront; hazy, warm, and well-loved:

_It's midday, but the sky is cloaked in overcast, rain spattering irregularly against the windows. They're cloistered inside; she's nursing the brilliant bruises decorating the left side of her ribcage, and he's cleaning the bite wound she'd given him on the meat of his shoulder._

_She watches him with her lower lip tugged between her teeth, knees pulled up to her chest. In between his applied bouts of antiseptic, she wonders if he knows just how much she's in love with him._

_On the cusp of twenty, it wouldn't be so scandalous, him and her. Nate's just shy of being ten years her senior, all honed masculinity with a face that would tempt the Devil himself._

_And she's so young and dumb, couldn't hide her feelings if she tried. He **has** to look at her and see it written all over her stupid, freckled face. A veritable neon sign almost-framed by two faded scars and her mop of carrot-colored hair._

_"Stop staring, sweet thing. Else I'll start thinking you like me more than you really do," he lilts, making her toes curl at the sound._

_Theodora rolls her eyes through the blush spreading over her skin, "Shut up."_

_The grin he gives her is teasing, "I would, but I know how much you love the sound of my voice."_

_She scowls playfully at the floor after he says that, pressing gentle fingers into the soreness of her side. There's still the barest taste of his blood lingering on the back of her tongue, and she wonders, a little desperately, what he thinks of her-_

The metal door abruptly lurches open,  and she's pulled from the past. Out-of-focus hazel eyes gradually watch as a soldier in full power armor, she is unsure of their rank, steps into frame.

"Ma'am," the greeting is muffled by the helmet, and the soldier cocks their head to the side, "the Elder requests your presence."

She's pushes herself off the floor and makes her way to flight deck with the soldier stomping artlessly along behind her. She turns her face to the side as she walks and addresses them demurely, "I know where to go."

"I am to escort you. The Elder feels that leaving you unattended would possibly facilitate your escape."

Theodora snorts. _Escape? Then I am not so much a fellow soldier than I am a prisoner,_ she thinks.  

When Maxson comes into view his distress is evident. His features are twisted into an expression she's never seen on him before. Underneath the obvious fury lingers something that looks suspiciously like betrayal.

His gaze is accusatory, already convinced of her guilt, "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Knight?"

But the look on his face falters for just a second when he sees confusion knot her brow, "I don't know what you're talking about, Elder."

"Look at me, Metzger," he commands, tone curling in a snarl, "Look at me and swear you don't know."

Green-brown eyes lock with his pretty blues, "I'm not lying. You won't believe me, but I swear I'm telling the truth. I don't know what you're talking about."

His frustration is exhaled in quiet, defeated sigh, "Proctor Quinlan completed the decryption on the holodisk you retrieved from the Institute. A portion of the data recovered included a list of synths that either went missing or escaped from their underground facility."

Theodora grows wary, "What does this have to do with me?"

The Elder frowns at her interruption but continues on, "Careful analysis has revealed something," he pauses as he searches for the correct word, "Unprecedented."

_This will end poorly_.

"Paladin Danse is a perfect match for one of the synths on that list," Arthur says it like the fact causes him physical pain and now she understands why he looked so betrayed minutes before.

_Oh, god,_ "No, you must be mistaken. That can't be true."

"I assure you that the results are accurate. The data you surrendered kept record of each subject's DNA.  As you can imagine, the Brotherhood keeps the same information on file for each one of our soldiers. Paladin Danse's DNA matches perfectly with that of a synth called M7-97. To make matters worse, he's disappeared without a trace. His sudden absence only reinforces our conclusion that M7-97 and Paladin Danse are one in the same." The Elder pauses before sneering, "And now you're trying to tell me that he never confided this information to you?"

"If Danse had any inclination of his origins he neglected to inform me of them, but despite having repeatedly told you that I had no such knowledge of this, you still have the audacity to suggest otherwise," Theodora leans in as she speaks. The careful calmness she tries to instill in her voice gives way to agitation.

"Be that as it may, it does not absolve you of your duty," Arthur grinds out. "Danse is a monstrosity of technology, a synth. The Institute and its creations must be destroyed."

He sighs heavily, sliding a hand through his crop of hair, "Which leaves me to face the most difficult order I've ever given."

Theodora's heart slides up and clogs her throat. She shakes her head, "Don't-"

"You, Knight, will hunt down Danse and execute him."

The airship hums around them, and the life aboard the Prdywen carries on as if Maxson hadn't just ordered her to murder her companion, his _friend_.

"No." It's the single fiercest thing to ever pass her lips, "He deserves a chance to explain himself."

Arthur snarls and knots a hand in the hair at the back of her skull. He turns them away from curious eyes, faces them towards the wall of dingy glass that looks over the ruins of Boston. He speaks in a furious whisper, breath heating the shell of her ear, "This is not up for debate. You will do it, Theodora, and you will do so without complaint or judgment."

"He is your friend, Arthur."

"I knew the man, not the _thing_ that replaced him."

She does her best to turn her face towards him, restricted by his steadfast hand in her hair, "And what if you didn't? What if the man you know has always been the machine? You are asking me to kill a man that might have been ignorant of his own inception. You play judge and jury, but instruct me to act as the unwilling executioner. You give a guilty verdict without even considering that Danse might be _innocent._ "

Maxson gives her a short shove before yanking her around to face him, "The evidence against him is clear. _He is a synth_."

"What I'm trying to impress upon you is the simple idea that Danse might not have known. That this discovery is just as devastating to him as it is to any one of us, probably more so." She loses the battle with her own emotions, then. Tears prickle in the whites of her eyes, and she finds herself pleading with this man once again, "Please, do not make me do this."

Arthur's features soften, if only just barely, and his voice lightens in kind, "I am not unaware of what he is to you; mentor, companion, friend-"

"And what about what he is to you?" she asks quietly.

Any understanding kindness she coaxed from him is gone in an instant, replaced with his usual coldness, "You have your orders, Knight. Do not return until you've completed your mission."

Her jaw snaps shut in a clack of teeth. As she moves past him to exit the room, he snags her by the elbow, grip like a brand and voice like a promise, "Do not disappoint me, Theodora."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone out there is still reading this, i extend my most sincere apologies for how utterly fucking long it takes me to update my stories. apply any excuses you wish for my delay, because i have a fuck ton of them and they all suck. i want you to know that i adore each and every one of you that has followed along with me this far, and any new viewers that may have come along.
> 
> blubbering aside, we're getting into the blind betrayal quest line here, so angst and sorrow abound. buckle up, folks. it's gonna be a miserable fucking ride, but i'm thrilled y'all are taking it with me.
> 
> also, side note: i am hoping, (and i'm stressing the hope part pretty severely), that i'll have slingshot done by the end of may. i have already started the rewrite of charcoal. i'm wishing upon an unlikely star that i'll have the entire underdog series rewritten and finished sometime over the summer, because i might start grad school, and fuck knows i won't have any time to work on it then.
> 
> as always, let me know what you think. and if you want, you can find me over on tumblr under the same name.


	3. three.

Theodora stumbles through the airship in a fog, desperate to leave, to never see any of these people again. Her stomach writhes; eyes burning as her head throbs at a frantic tempo, all caught up in a violent mutiny that threatens to undo her.

She has almost made it to the exit when a ghostly hand appears from the shadows and yanks her into a secluded alcove of the ship. Her vision takes a minute to adjust to the lowlight, and as the black gives way to shape, a young woman stands before her.

Haylen's cheeks are tear-stained, eyes swollen and nose snotty. Her scribe cap is pulled back to reveal a tangled mess of orange hair that hangs against her slumped shoulders. When she finally speaks her voice is a rasp pulled from a sob-sore throat, "Are you going to kill him?"

Theodora's body sags against the metal wall behind her, overcome with a moment of absolute fatigue. Pressing shaky fingers to the bridge of her nose, she sighs and meets the other woman's gaze with her own. "I don't know," she confesses quietly.

Haylen nods with understanding and gives a sigh herself, "I've known Danse since I was an initiate," she pauses slightly before continuing on, "And in all that time he has earned my admiration, my respect, and my _friendship_."

The woman's eyes harden, and her fists clench in determination, "I don't give a damn what Quinlan's report says. I don't care if he is a machine. He's still _Danse_."

Haylen's voice cracks on his name and Theodora nearly shatters at the sound. Haylen soldiers on, making a case to a jury that is already convinced of the defendant's innocence, "Danse is the most selfless person I've ever met. He risks his life for others out of principle alone." Theodora watches as Haylen's lips begin to tremble and her eyes begin to cloud with moisture. "Which is why I'm asking you, not only as a member of the Brotherhood, but as a decent human being, please-" her voice falters and she takes a moment to compose herself, "Please, give him a chance and whether or not you're convinced by his side of the story, I'll trust that you'll make the right decision when the time comes."

Haylen wipes at her eyes and straightens herself, "There's a fallback point, made before the Prydwen ever glided over the Commonwealth. Listening Post Bravo. It's isolated and only we knew about it. I believe he's there because I can't imagine he'd choose anywhere else." She pauses to mark the location on Theodora's map before clasping their hands together. Haylen looks up at her, resignation heavy in her features. With fresh tears gliding down her pale cheeks, she whispers, "What ever choice you make, I trust it'll be the right one."

As the field medic releases her hand and slinks back down the corridor; Theodora lets her own tears fall.

\---

Listening Post Bravo is a sanctuary cut into the rocky outcropping of a meager hillside. The defenses are laughable, thrown together with just the barest hint of effort and an absolute sense of urgency. Inside the structure has begun to collapse in upon itself and the smell of damp earth and ruin is near overwhelming.

In the middle of it all, Danse stands alone.

His flight suit shows him to be a hollow beacon cast against the cold, grey backdrop of the crumbling bunker.

Theodora opens her mouth to speak, but finds she has no words to say.

Instead, Danse gestures to their surroundings and offers her a wry smile, "It's not much of a home, is it?" Then, more seriously, "I'm not surprised Maxson sent you. He never liked to do the dirty work himself."

"Did you know?" She asks quietly; feeling like the room swallows her voice because she can hardly hear the words as she speaks them.

"Believe me, Theodora. I would have told you had I known what I was. I had no idea until Quinlan got a hold of that holodisk."

For the first time, she is struck with the fact that Danse's fall from grace is an indirect result of her actions, and the crippling guilt wraps itself like a noose around her heart.

In the space of her silence he asks, "What are your orders?"

She can't bring herself to say the words, so she doesn't. In their place she substitutes, "It's like you said, Maxson doesn't like to do the dirty work himself."

He nods, resigned to his fate, "I'm not blind to how difficult this must be for you. I wish Maxson had sent someone else."

Throb building in her temples, Theodora tries in vain to stop the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, clinging like crystals to her lashes.

She can see the look of sympathy he gives her through the cloudy mist of her vision, "None of that changes the outcome. I am a synth which means I need to be destroyed. Theodora, if you disobey your orders you're not only betraying Maxson, you're betraying the Brotherhood of Steel and everything it stands for."

His words sprout a fresh wave of anger; her hands twisting against the grip of her sledgehammer. Danse ignores her silent display of disapproval and continues on, "Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions. They need to be controlled.

"I need to be the example, Knight. Not the exception."

"No," a tiny whispered, broken thing, and her tears fall in earnest now.

"Maxson gave you the order to execute me, and I won't stand in your way."

She has to press her hand to her lips to keep from openly sobbing when he kneels before her. She lets her sledge fall; the idea of slamming it into the side of Danse's skull makes her knees weak and threatens to send her stomach crawling up her throat.

The sound Kremvh makes as she pulls it from its sheath is the hushed suggestion of death itself, and her hand shakes as she hold the blade up to his throat.

"I'm sorry," Theodora mumbles pitifully in between the sound of her heart breaking.

The smile he gives her is the most sincere thing she's ever seen, unwavering and honest, "I've never been more proud of you than I am in this moment."

It's pathetic, how fast those encouraging words unravel her, but they slide like a snake up the length of her arm and into the cavity of her chest; until her whole body trembles with the force of them.

There is a metallic clang as the sword hits the floor and she collapses to her knees in nearly the same instant.

The grit of his facial hair is rough and warm against he flesh of her palms when she gathers his face in her hands, "No," she croaks. Then stronger, fiercer, "I _won't_ do it."

"Why? Why would you risk your life for me?"

"Maxson's wrong. You may be a machine, Danse, but you aren't a monster."

His shoulders slump, weary and defeated, "If you don't do this, Maxson will just send someone else to finish the job. I'll have to leave to Commonwealth and even that doesn't guarantee my safety and it sure as hell doesn't guarantee yours."

"Arthur Maxson doesn't scare me." Calm. She's so calm as she says those words that she almost doesn't believe she was about to murder her friend for being something he couldn't control.

The older man reaches up and pulls his holotags over his head; pressing them tightly into her hands, "Take these so you have some sort of proof." He smiles sadly at her, "It's not like I'll need them anymore anyway."

Danse pulls them to their feet and places a hand on her back, "Come on, let's get out of here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continue on, i have no excuse for myself.


	4. four.

She should have known.

It shouldn't have been this easy, this simple; and goddammit, she should have _known_.

Maxson is murderous. Nothing but unadulterated and absolute rage standing at the forefront of the sprawling wasteland.

The heat is oppressive. The sun bearing down; drowning them in light and unseen fire. In the moment it's heady, and Theodora barely feels the slick trickle of sweat down the slope of her spine.

"How dare you betray the Brotherhood!" Maxson roars at her, canines flashing in the black-red cavern of his mouth.

Danse tries to step in front of her; an attempt to bear the onslaught that sure to come, "It's not her fault. It's mine."

The Elder's eyes flash toward the former Paladin, and his fury only thickens, "I'll deal with you in a moment." Short and sharp; precision slicing deeper than any blade.

Maxson's attention refocuses on Theodora and she finds herself stepping forward between the two men; finally ready to claim her pound of flesh.

"Knight, why hasn't this _thing_ been destroyed?"

"He's not a thing," Theodora snarls. "He's one of your best men."

Maxson's boots crunch on the gravel of the downward slope. There is no space of her own when he finally stops before her. He uses his massive size to hunch over her, so close that the tip of her nose almost caresses his own, so close that he could taste the leashed anger on her breath as she exhales.

His head tilts to the side, tone caustic, "Have you taken a leave of your senses?" He throws an accusatory finger towards Danse, "It isn't a man. It's a machine created by the Institute. It wasn't born from the womb of a loving mother; it was _assembled_ in the cold confines of a laboratory."

Danse is a man who can lead his own defense; stepping forward to send Maxson back, "After everything I've done for the Brotherhood, after all the blood I've spilled in our name-" a cold sneer, "In _your_ name. How could you say that about me?"

The Elder takes up the challenge, unhesitant and full of self-righteousness, "You're the embodiment of what we hate most: technology gone too far." His words are crippling and drenched it utter disgust.

Bending down to clutch up a hand full of dust; he continues on, "Look around you, Danse." Maxson lets the dirt drift through his fingers to be sent back over the waste with the wind, "Look at the scorched earth and bleached bones scattered across the wasteland. How may millions of people died because science outpaced man's restraint?

"That new frontier led to the destruction of mankind as we knew it. Can't you see that this is just the same thing happening again? That you're just a single bomb in an arsenal full of thousands just like you; all armed and ready to shove humanity back off the cliff it struggled for centuries to reclimb?"

 "That's ridiculous!" The shout rips from Theodora's throat and sets Maxson's attention back on her.

"How can you trust a machine that thinks it's alive? A machine that's had its memories erased, its thoughts programmed, and its very soul manufactured?"

Theodora doesn't even have a chance to respond; Danse is already speaking with a serenity this situation doesn't deserve, "It's true. I was built in a lab and some of my memories may not even be my own. But when my brothers fell at my feet, I felt sorrow. When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride."

There's a pause as he levels a look at Maxson that nearly sucks all the air out of Theodora's lungs, "And when you spoke about saving the Commonwealth, I felt _hope_.

"Don't you understand? _I thought I was human_ , _Arthur_."

But there is no dawn of acceptance in the Elder's features; no kindness returning for his former friend and soldier. There is a cold hatred in his brilliant blue eyes, "I don't intend to have this debate any longer." With a hard look at Theodora, he states, "My orders stand."

Danse's hand is at her elbow; his voice a soothing murmur over the acidic vitriol of Arthur's hatred, "It's okay. We tried. I am not ashamed of what I truly am and I have you to thank for that."

"Touching," Maxson sneers. "Either you kill the machine, or I will. The choice is yours, Knight."

This time, it's Theodora that pushes her way into Maxson's space, "Listen to me. In spite of my reluctance, I've done everything, _everything_ that you have asked of me since joining the Brotherhood. Understand that now, Arthur, I am not reluctant. I am outright refusing to obey you."

She softens. Her voice lowers; becoming an undertow that threatens to drown him, "I will not have the murder of this man on my conscience. God knows I already have too many to bear and many more to come. Please do not make me shoulder his too."

Theodora thinks that if she were any other person, any other woman, Arthur would have shoved her aside and killed Danse himself. But she sees the subtle undertone of defeat beneath the thick layer of overwhelming authority that Arthur uses as armor.

"If you insist he remains alive then there is only one alternative." He turns to Danse, "As far as I'm concerned, you're dead. Knight Metzger pursued and killed you and your body was incinerated. From this day forward you are forbidden from stepping foot on the Prydwen or speaking to any soldier of the Brotherhood of Steel. Know that if you choose to ignore me, you will be shot on sight. Am I making myself clear?"

Danse is open-hearted and earnest as he answers, "Thank you for believing in me, Arthur."

"Do _not_ mistake my mercy for acceptance," Maxson growls, "The only reason you're alive is because of _her_."

Arthur's hand comes up to touch underneath Theodora's chin, "Take some time to say your goodbyes, Knight. I expect to see you back at the Prydwen. We still have the Institute to deal with."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two for the price of one because this was supposed to be finished yesterday and instead i spent all day reading a trash romance novel.


	5. five.

They both look on as Maxson stalks back to the vertibird; coat-tail trailing out behind him as the aircraft's blades kick up a mess of dust.

When she turns her attention back to Danse, he gives her a sad sort of smile that tears at her stomach, strangles her heart.

She needs confirmation that this isn’t the last time she’ll see him, “You’ll stay?”

“Yes, I’ll stay.”

“Not here,” she nearly begs, “Not alone.”

“Where else would I go? You heard Maxson, I’ll only put innocent people in danger.”

“The Castle,” Theodora says almost automatically. “The Brotherhood doesn’t want you. Fine. The Minutemen do. I do.” Then, quietly, she admits, “I need help. I can’t do this by myself.”

Danse reaches out, tangles their fingers together, “Whatever you need. I’ll be whatever you need, Theodora.”

Hugging him isn’t what she wants it to be; it’s cold and insensitive, his power armor too bulky for the personal contact she wishes to achieve. She grabs at his hand again, linking their fingers together once more.

The Commonwealth waste smothers them in early afternoon sunlight, and she notices the beads of sweat gathering at his temples, the smattering of grey hair threaded through dark brown. She watches the way his skin crinkles just so at the corners of his eyes when he offers her a soft smile.

 _He was worth saving_ , she thinks, squeezing his hand just a little tighter.

“Thank you, Danse.”

\---

That long, lonely trek to the Prydwen is nothing but muscle memory now; the slow-drag of her feet against crumbling pavement. The taste in her mouth is sour, a product of too much dirt and bitter acid from a churning stomach.

She and Danse split ways back at County Crossing after gathering provisions for each of their respective journeys. She’d shoved a crumpled note at the former Paladin and asked him to deliver it to MacCready, half-laughing when she saw the frown decorating his usually stoic face.

_“I dislike the mercenary,” he’d stated plainly, tucking the note safely away within the creases of his armor._

_“He’ll grow on you, promise,” she’d answered over her shoulder, already heading off in the other direction, “Tell him I said you didn’t get me killed!”_

Now, she stares warily at the hollowed out ruins of the Boston airport. The crumbling walls have never been less inviting and in brutal, stunning contrast, she has never been more welcome by the Brotherhood.

Her fellow soldiers greet her with celebration as she makes her way through the outpost. She feels like a traitor, an amalgam a falsehoods and resentment. Anger spikes in a flurry across her skin; she’s unsettled and itching for a fight, knuckles pulled white and nails slicing into her palms.

And the eventual sight of Maxson, standing there in a haze of shadow and light within the shell of his aerial ship, leaves Theodora breathless, the fury critical and cresting. On the verge of a meltdown, she says nothing in the way of a greeting as she approaches him, doesn't trust herself to speak.

He fills in the silence for her, "Let me be clear," he says in a lulling tone that holds nothing but finality, "This conversation is the last time we will speak about Danse. He's dead, as far as the Brotherhood is concerned. Do you understand me?"

Her nostrils flare, but her only answer is a mean flash of teeth and a shaky, slow exhale as she tries to regain control.

The Elder continues on, "Danse's execution leaves a missing link in our chain of command. You will make a fine replacement."

The statement blindsides her and her anger evaporates, nothing more than forgotten smoke simmering off agitated skin.

An onslaught of words continues to assault her, leaving her disoriented and lost, "His quarters and all of his possessions, including his power armor, now belong to you."

With one last statement, Maxson delivers the final blow, "Congratulations, Paladin."

Theodora shakes her head as she takes a stumbling step back and her eyes are suddenly more wet than she wants them to be, "How could you?" she asks, barely audible, nothing more than a whisper and Arthur has to strain to hear it.

"Excuse me?"

She doesn't answer. Fingers flying to her throat, she fumbles wildly with the latches of her flight-suit instead, pulling the material just wide enough to reach underneath.

Theodora looks him in the eyes as she does it; a vicious yank to snap the ball-chain of her holotags.  She throws them to the floor at his feet.

"Consider this my resignation," and goddammit, she wanted it to sound firmer, absolute. Instead, it tumbles out of her mouth in a broken whimper, barely forced through trembling lips.

To be true, she has never seen Arthur Maxson look more shocked than he does in this single moment. His recovery is a magnificent thing; pure outrage rushing in to conceal the distress that preceded it, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

She jabs a finger into her chest, "I joined the Brotherhood of Steel to find an ally against the Institute!" she shouts, hands shaking. "You gave me _hope_ ," a foul word, spit into the air between them. “I trusted you.” The tears spill over, shining the skin beneath the layer of Commonwealth dirt. “I trusted what you offered me, but I can’t do this.”

Under Maxson's wrath, she can finally see the baser truth of pain. With Danse's perceived betrayal, he's lost his best soldier and closest friend. Now, her withdrawal means he loses the fragile relationship struggling to grow between them, and the unstable feelings that came with it.

"Theodora-" a brief, stuttered plea that slips from his lips with conviction, laced in sorrow.

She won't hear it; this man has only heaved more heartache upon her already salted wounds. Her parting words are meant to drown him in his own misery, and she breathes them with every hurting bone in her body:

"Ad victoriam, Elder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi.
> 
> look, i know what i said on tumblr. but most of this chapter has been finished for well over a year now, but finishing it was harder than it really needed to be. so, here it is. if you want, let me know what you think. 
> 
> and thanks for reading. :)


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